Speak of the Devil (33 page)

Three Courtroom Security Officers sat in chairs behind the defendants’ tables; another CSO sat next to the court clerk, in front of the judge. Anyone coming into the courtroom to watch the trial had to check in with a guard outside the door. The CSOs would check under the lawyers’ tables every morning for concealed weapons. The attorneys had even been instructed not to use fountain pens so the defendants couldn’t turn them into makeshift knives.

Anna recited the rest of her opening statement from her position a few feet from the jury box. It had taken days of writing, reciting, editing, and re-reciting the speech until it sounded natural and unrehearsed.

Anna had charged six members of the Langley Park Salvatruchas with a conspiracy to commit RICO violations. Casper, Lagrimas, Cabron, and Gato had already pleaded guilty; only Diablo and Psycho were left. If convicted, they faced life in prison.

Diablo glared at Anna throughout her opening statement. He seemed not to care whether he was convicted—at least, he made no effort to appear docile in front of the jury. Anna ignored him. She’d been stared at by defendants before. She kept her speech focused on the facts the government would prove. Some of her description was general, to avoid identifying her witnesses. Given the fates of some of the witnesses in this case, the judge had granted a protective order permitting the government not to disclose the witnesses’ identities in advance. The defense would only receive the witnesses’ prior statements and impeachment information after each witness testified. It was certainly a disadvantage to the defendant, but with three witnesses killed, the judge was taking no chances.

Halfway through her opening, however, Anna saw something she was entirely unprepared for. As she was describing how a detective investigating Maria-Rosa’s death had her own life threatened, Jack put his arm around Nina’s shoulder. He leaned his head toward hers and whispered something into her ear. Nina smiled. Anna lost her train of thought. She ad-libbed, waiting for her mind to recall the passages she had practiced.

“The detective wasn’t killed,” Anna said, “but in a very real sense, she had her life taken from her. She lost her husband and daughter. It’s a life she will never be able to . . . to regain fully.” Her mouth had gone dry—the next words wouldn’t come. She walked to counsel table and took a sip of water, pretending to consult her notes.

The moment passed. It all came back, as she’d practiced it. Regaining her rhythm, she concluded her opening statement.

But instead of listening to the defendants’ opening statements, she kept replaying her stumble over and over in her head. “She had her life taken from her . . . a life she will never be able to regain.”
Because of me.

• • •

Diablo listened to his own attorney pathetically tell the jury about the government’s high “burden of proof” and the standard of “beyond a reasonable doubt.” The translator’s voice repeated the words in Spanish into the earphones on his head—as if he didn’t understand the first time how pointless they were. When they arrested him, eight months ago, he still had Rooster’s blood on his hands. The whole night was captured on audiotape. This trial was just for show. He was going to jail for a long time.

He didn’t mind. He had given the same advice to many homies: Jail wasn’t punishment, it was finishing school. MS-13 was stronger in prison than on the street. Diablo would be as feared, respected, and influential in prison as anywhere else. Maybe more so.

But this trial was still important for one reason: Diablo would learn who was snitching. The police reports explained that there was a recording device in Rooster’s pocket. It figured—Rooster had always been bitter about the way the gang treated Buena. Diablo was glad to have killed him. But Rooster might not have been the only snitch. Diablo would sit through the trial and see who was testifying against him. Whoever snitched would die in prison, he would make sure of that.

And there was one more thing he had to do before they took him away. It was the reason he was still in this wheelchair, months after his injury. He had to get that bitch.

He stared at the prosecutor, sitting so smugly next to the jury. She would suffer. He couldn’t wait to slash that pretty face—to plunge his homemade knife into her pale throat. Savoring the image, he met her eyes once more, licked his lips and smiled, revealing his gleaming white teeth, each sharpened to a wicked point.

His foot tapped the footrest of the wheelchair, where the shiv was hidden inside the hollow metal.

50

Nina testified during the second week of trial, and her testimony was a sensation. She wore a white sundress with a little white sweater, and although Anna’s July wedding was only a month away, it was Nina who looked like the glowing bride. She testified simply and softly about the emotional events of the last four years. The jury leaned forward to catch her every word. They loved her. At one point, Anna glanced back into the audience and saw Jack in the back row, riveted by the testimony. Anna’s stomach dipped with a nervousness she didn’t usually feel when Jack sat in on her trials. He met her eyes and smiled reassuringly.

That evening, Anna, Sam, and George Litz stood around Anna’s laptop on a long table in the war room, a conference room on the same hallway as Judge Emerson’s courtroom. The room was crammed with exhibits, documents, reference books, and snacks.

The trial team clicked through the Web editions of stories about the day’s testimony. By reading the impressions drawn by journalists and bloggers, Anna hoped to get some insight into what the jury was thinking.

Petula Dvorak’s article in the
Washington Post
ran a headline that could have fit just as easily in the
Washington City Paper’s News of the Weird
column: “Dead Detective Testifies Against the Devil.” In less than a thousand words, it was a compelling portrayal of a woman so dedicated to justice that she risked her life to fight the gang. It depicted Nina’s decision to go into the Witness Protection Program as a terrible and noble sacrifice, made to protect her young daughter and husband from harm. Thankfully, the press didn’t yet know the identity of the “dead” detective’s former husband—or the fact that he and Anna were engaged.

“I think the story came out pretty good,” Sam said. “It sounds like we’ve got a strong case. And it doesn’t mention you at all.”

Anna nodded, relieved. But the relationship between Nina, Jack, and Anna was common knowledge in the U.S. Attorney’s Office. It was only a matter of time before Anna’s personal life became a piece of a salacious news story.

“Oh, we got your wedding invitation in the mail the other day,” George said. “Thanks! BJ and I will be there.”

“Great,” Anna said. She tried to muster the proper amount of enthusiasm. She liked George and his wife a lot, and was glad they could make it. Lately, though, Anna felt like she was portraying the emotions of a bride as often as she was actually feeling them.

• • •

That evening, they had their last witness conference with Gato. Anna and Sam sat in the a small conference room in the Marshal’s Office so a deputy could bring Gato up an internal elevator from lockup in the basement without the public seeing him. Across a tiny table sat Gato, his lawyer, and a deputy Marshal. Gato was in shackles and leg irons, cuffed to the leg of the table. It was a precautionary measure taken with all prisoner-witnesses, but it made the power dynamic in the room perfectly clear.

Anna had been through plenty of meetings with Gato as they prepared for his testimony. This was the last chance she’d have to prep him before he took the stand. They went over the highlights of his testimony, and he was as consistent as he’d been before. Anna was pleased. He was going to be a good witness. She was ready to wrap up.

“The most important thing is that you be completely honest,” she said. “Your testimony doesn’t help us if you lie. And if you don’t tell the truth, or don’t tell the whole truth, your entire plea deal will be voided.”

Gato looked at her with big eyes. He turned and whispered to his lawyer.

“Can we have a minute?” asked Pinsky.

Anna had a sinking feeling in her stomach. She nodded, and she and Sam walked out. Thirty minutes later, Pinsky opened the door and invited them back in.

“Just to be clear,” Pinsky said, “now that Diego has pled guilty and is cooperating, he’s immunized for whatever he tells you about his career in MS-13, as long as he’s truthful.” Anna nodded. “Diego, tell Ms. Curtis what you just told me.”

Gato glanced at Anna but when he spoke, he looked down at his hands. “Ms. Curtis, you know I loved Maria-Rosa. When she went to the police, Diablo put a greenlight on her. I begged him not to do it. I said she wouldn’t testify, she’d say whatever I told her to. He didn’t care. She had betrayed us.”

Gato spread out his fingers on the table and stared at the three-dot tattoo.

“Then what happened?” Anna asked.

She tried to keep her voice neutral, although she knew she would hate the answer. Why, she wondered, just once, couldn’t a trial go as planned—with the witnesses saying what you expected? There was always something. In the dozens of cases she’d taken to trial, not a single one went down without some sort of surprise in the middle or immediately before. The only question was how bad the surprise would be. She clenched her jaw and waited to hear this one.

• • •

Gato felt all the eyes in the room on him. He continued looking at his hands as his mind went back to the last day he was ever happy. It was four years ago. He and Diablo were alone in a cheap motel room, before a
misa
. At seventeen, Gato was still a bit starstruck to have a private audience with the gang leader. Diablo rubbed the bumps on his forehead as if in deep concentration.

“You have the potential to be a great leader,” Diablo said. “If this turns out right, you would earn the position of Second Word. You would earn the respect and gratitude of your homies. And you would earn
my
respect. So tell me, Gato. Let’s say you were Second Word. What do
you
think needs to be done?”

“I don’t think she’ll say anything to the police.”

“She already has.”

“She won’t say anything else.”

“You know that’s not true.” Diablo shook his head. “She’s going into the grand jury in three days.”

“She’ll take it all back. She’ll say she lied before.”

“Think, Gato. If she couldn’t handle being questioned in the pretty pink room at the children’s center, how will she do when they threaten to charge her with perjury?”

Gato looked down at his feet. Diablo was right. Maria-Rosa was soft and scared and inclined to “do the right thing.” She would testify against Diablo and Psycho. Against the whole gang, maybe even against him. She knew all the terrible things Gato had done.

“It’s not your fault,” Diablo said. “She brought this on herself. I know you love her. But if you don’t do it, one of your homies will. Someone who doesn’t care about her. They can be so cruel. Is that what you want to happen to her?”

“No,” Gato said, fighting back tears.

“They will find her, Gato, and she will suffer. There’s only one way to protect her from that kind of pain. You know what you have to do.”

That night, Gato and Maria-Rosa spread out a bedcover in a corner of the motel room. Many people lay around them, in similar nests of bedding on the floor. Under a sheet and the cover of darkness, they made love. She wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry,” Gato whispered back. “Everything will be fine. I’ll keep you safe. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She arched toward him, bringing him deeper inside of her. He sighed as he came. Then he held her, stroking her back softly until she fell asleep in his arms. He laid his head on the silky blanket of her hair and breathed in her strawberry scent.

The next morning dawned clear and warm. He suggested they go outside and enjoy it. They went to Rock Creek Park, holding hands as they walked down the path next to the creek. The birds chirped and hopped from tree to tree.

They got to a place where a historic stone house stood over a waterwheel covered in moss. The water babbled over rocks. Maria-Rosa smiled at him as she stood on the bank of the creek. She turned to watch the wheel as it gurgled and spun. Gato looked around them. They were alone, surrounded by trees and brush.

He took the gun from his pocket and pointed it at the back of her head.

• • •

In the conference room, Gato looked up from his hands. His attorney, the FBI agent, and the prosecutor were all staring at him. The tears streamed silently down his face, making a pattern of splotchy circles on the tabletop. He didn’t try to stop them.

“I did it,” Gato said. “I babysat her the night before. I made her feel safe. And then I killed her.”

51

The next morning, Diablo sat in his wheelchair at the defense table, fuming as he waited for the trial day to start. He knew the trial was winding down, and he had lost patience with it. No MS-13 member had testified against him. So far, the case had been based almost entirely on the testimony of police officers, crime-scene technicians, fingerprint experts, and other law enforcement personnel. He had sat through an entire day of tapes and blurry surveillance video of the two-hour
generale
. The dry experts were punctuated with gory autopsy photographs and cause-of-death testimony from a series of medical examiners. A few citizens had testified to MS-13’s extortion—a couple of pupusa makers, a local bookmaker—but it was chickenshit stuff, nothing worthy of his wrath. Perhaps Rooster, whose pocket held the bugged cell phone, had been the only traitor in MS-13’s midst.

By sitting peacefully through the trial, waiting to see who would testify, Diablo had wasted too many opportunities to kill that bitch. Three or four times over the past ten days, she perched her poster-boards of crime-scene diagrams and photographs on an easel right in front of his table. Every time she walked to the easel, he gazed at the soft nape of her neck and tapped his foot softly on the footrest of the wheelchair, where the shiv was hidden. But he’d let every opportunity pass.